The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)

“He won’t wake up. Please hurry. He won’t wake up.”

An eternity crammed itself into the next fifteen minutes—the time it took for EMTs to bust in the door. I scrambled out of their way, the ball of terror in my stomach wanting to rise up into my throat.

Chaos ensued as Miller’s security team poured into the room with Brighton and a handful of assistants and tour managers. I threw on jeans, shoes, and a sweatshirt as the EMTs lifted Miller onto a gurney. Faces swam in front of me, but I pushed past them to stay with Miller. He still hadn’t woken up.

The EMTs asked questions about his medical history as Brighton and I hurried alongside the gurney through the hotel. Guests were peeking out of doors, gawking at the commotion. I told the EMTs about his past and Brighton explained his more current issues. Miller’s numbers had always been hard to manage, but my heart cracked to hear how he’d been struggling recently.

I demanded to ride with him to the hospital, afraid to let him out of my sight, even for a moment. Afraid if I looked away, he’d disappear. In the chaos of the jouncing ambulance, with EMTs talking over the beeping of machines, I sat beside Miller, held his limp hand in mine, and leaned over close. My face was on fire, still too panicked for tears. There wasn’t a drop of water in my body.

“Stay with me. I mean it. Stay right here,” I told him, over the thrashing of blood in my ears. “Stay with me, baby, please.”

Under an oxygen mask, Miller remained pale, eyes closed, mouth half open and slack.

At the hospital, they whisked him away, out of my sight and to the ICU. Someone led me to the waiting room, just outside the swinging doors. Someone else gave me a glass of water.

Dr. Brighton arrived. He touched my shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “You did good,” he said, then pushed through the ICU doors. Because he was a doctor and I wasn’t.

Assistants and managers arrived to crowd the room. I recognized one young woman, Tina, as his new assistant, a phone pressed to her ear.

“His mom,” I said in a hollow voice. “Someone call his mom.”

Helplessness pressed down on me now that Miller’s care was taken out of my hands. I had nothing to do but wait. The terror had gripped my heart in an icy fist and wouldn’t let go. Finally, a young doctor with a bald head but a full dark beard came out looking for Miller’s family. His face was inscrutable, no way to tell if he had good news or…

A flash of memory streak

ed across my vision: Miller climbing up the trellis and through my bedroom window. Miller and me, thirteen years old, lying in bed face to face. Miller sitting across from me, his guitar in his lap, singing songs he wrote for me and I never knew…

“Me,” I said hoarsely, mustering every ounce of courage I had. “Me. You can tell me.”

I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever it is because he’s mine and I’m his. Always.

The doctor sat across from me, a quiet smile under his beard. His nametag read Dr. Julian Monroe.

“Miller is in a diabetic coma.”

My head bobbed in a nod. “Yes. Okay.”

“We’ve given him fluids and glucose, and he’s now flitting in and out of consciousness. A very good sign.”

My eyes fell shut as relief washed over me. “He’s…awake?”

“Not yet but he’s trying. Were you the one who administered the glucagon?”

I nodded. “He had no symptoms,” I said in a small voice. “The night before, he had no symptoms. He was fine. He was perfect. I missed something. I should have known—”

Dr. Monroe cut me off. “You could not have known. Miller’s insulin pump malfunctioned and administered far more than he required. I also understand from Dr. Brighton that Miller has struggled to control his diabetes throughout his life. Prolonged fluctuation of blood sugars can lead to a dangerous suppression of symptoms called hypoglycemic unawareness.”

That term floated out from my childhood research too.

“I had no idea it was this bad. I should have…done something. Done more.”

“There’s nothing you could have done but what you did. We have him stabilized, and we’re running more tests. Brittle diabetes is not typical. It’s unpredictable and baffles even the best kind of care, which he was under with Dr. Brighton. To be honest, the real concern right now are his kidneys. Miller managed his diabetes on his own for quite a while, but I suspect that his unstable levels over the years have taken their toll.”

“In what way?” I asked, though I already knew.

“The nephrologist will confirm, but it’s likely he’s developed chronic kidney disease.”

I fought the urge to bury my head in my hands, but the doctor read my face.